


City

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Matt's Apartment, Sex, Stream of Consciousness, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Frank catches himself staring and wants to figure out why.One-shot.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 14
Kudos: 156
Collections: Fratt Week





	City

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fratt week, and just explicit enough that I didn't want to post directly to Tumblr! Enjoy!

* * *

Red’s body is torn up, scarred, beat to shit. Got bruises in places that Frank can’t figure how he got them. Little bit of blood clings to his nose and stubble, lingering flashes of a red that should be impossible to see in the dark, but there it is. The Devil peeking out through his disguise.

Frank catches himself staring again and again. Can’t blame it on absence: they’ve been seeing each other for the past couple nights now, pretending it’s an accident and knowing God damn well it’s not. There’s a reason Frank’s sniper nests and safehouses loom over areas the Devil might frequent, and there’s a reason the Devil frequents those areas, and it’s so they can have their way with each other in the street, then come back to one of their places and keep having their way with each other in the sheets.

Something about the Devil’s face that night’s got Frank looking though, pulling back from kisses that he usually maintains so his eyes’ll stay closed just for a look at Red. Curtains drawn in the Devil’s bedroom, there’s only the glow of the streetlamp light as it peels across the living room floor to guide his eyes. Red’s a series of white lines, a faint red glow on his cheeks, gleaming scar tissue and plumes of black where his injuries draw him back to black.

Red pounces on him, probably taking Frank’s stillness for a declaration of war, and Frank gives him one, irritated, wanting to catch the little Devil, figure out what the hell has his sniper’s eyes so fucking interested, so willing to linger. They’re not about seeing each other. This is about touch and taste, primal things. But there Frank goes, pushing Red into the mattress, rising over him to get a good look the way he sometimes does before he puts a bullet into some asshole’s brain. ‘Cept this time there’s no gun. There’s just the gleam of silk in icy tones of the billboard light, Red dull except for his scars, his face peering up at Frank in a mask of snarling curiosity.

He tries to get the fight going again; Frank pins him down, thinks that’s that, but Red slips out of his grasp. Frank tries again, this time putting most of his weight on the little shit, but now the angle’s bad. Holding him like this, Red’s a mystery, lost in shadow, and Frank gets a kick to his side for the trouble.

Frustration mounts. Frank grabs Red by the shoulders and drags him out the bed, straight into the living room, puts him down on the floor under that billboard light, and he pins Red in every way that matters. First by his waist: Frank sinks his thighs over Red’s hips. Then the wrists: Frank holds those to the floor. Then, when the light is an angry burst of red across the hardwood, Frank gets himself inside and thrusts deep and holds himself there. 

Red’s back arches. He groans. He drops into the floor suddenly, like a puppet cut off his strings, grunting, trying to catch his breath, and it’s there that Frank finally sees what he’s been looking for, sees that wild edge where the Devil meets the man.

They move together like that, Red’s eyes rolling back in his head and moans tearing their way out of his throat, his back arching and thighs tensing, drawing away from Frank just so Frank has a reason to thrust into him harder. And Frank does, chasing that sight, that moment where agony meets ecstasy and heaven meets hell, where he gets to touch something so perfect and so pure and so sacrosanct that it can’t possibly exist, and it does, if only for a few seconds. The Devil was an angel once, and he might be an angel again in those moments.

Frank finishes. He goes to pull himself back, but Red’s legs are on his hips, and instead, he falls forward, arms bracing themselves on either side of Red’s chest. The billboard light swirls into smoke and ash before lavender and gold sweep across the scars and bruises, returning Red to his mortal flesh and bone. Frank runs his nose along the bloody mar across the stubble, wondering if it’s from the gash on his knuckles. If Red’s running around wearing him the way he wears Red. Wondering if Red lives in him the way Frank does Red.

* * *

Happy reading!


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